The Pitfalls of Being a Weasley
by novemberskyox
Summary: Lucy lists eight reasons why she hates being a Weasley.


**The Pitfalls of Being a Weasley**

The train ride to Hogwarts was quite boring for Lucy Weasley, who managed to stow herself away in a compartment occupied by two sleeping boys she didn't quite recognize. As they say, '_Leave sleeping dogs lie_." She peered outside of the window, watching the scenery whiz by in blurs of green, blues, and browns, gripping her journal. She mentally photographed the image of the fast moving countryside, so that she could draw a sketch once she got to Hogwarts, in the confines of her room. Normally, she would have been rigorously sketching; however, she was preoccupied. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but she had no one to tell them to, even if she wanted. In order to buy time, she decided to construct a list.

**The Pitfalls of Being a Weasley**

_One._** Red Hair.**

While her hair was a deep auburn, much like her Aunt Ginny's, it was still obnoxious enough to be noticed, and Lucy was not one for the spotlight.

_Two._ **Freckles.**

Ugly spots littered her otherwise pale, porcelain skin. When she was little, she used to play connect the dots. Now, all she wish she could do was blast the grotesque markings from her skin.

_Three._ **Lots and lots of people.**

Every birthday, every holiday, every celebration was utter chaos. It's a noisy, crowded commotion of boisterous people talking louder than the next. She can't move, can't breathe, can't think among the mass of people. She loves her family, she does, but sometimes, it's just too much.

_Four._ **Legacies.**

Being the granddaughter of Molly Weasley and the niece of Harry Potter, Lucy has a lot to live up to, and she resents it. She wasn't named after her warrior grandmother. She wasn't named after anyone, and for a time, it felt like a knife twisting in her heart until she realized that living up to a name and the expectations that came along with it weren't worth it. She considered herself lucky in that sense.

_Five._** Pureblood**.

Once upon a time, it was a privilege to be of pure, wizarding blood. Not that the Weasleys were the kind of pureblood family to buy into the blood purist regime, but nowadays, it seems like the tides have been changed. Having never been one for confrontation, Lucy can feel the animosity brewing, and she resents her bloodline for it.

_Six_** Molly.**

No, not the beloved Molly Weasley, who originated the redheaded clang. Lucy loves her grandmother very much. No, the Molly in question is Lucy's older sister. If Perfect Percy could have dreamed up a beautiful daughter, she wouldn't be able to hold a match to Molly. She's perfect in every way. She looks the most like her grandmother, earns top grades, follows rules and regulations, and is just as pompous as Percy. Molly could do no wrong, and Lucy is reminded of it every chance Molly gets.

Lucy paused, bringing the feather of her quill to her lips. Thoughts of Molly inevitably brought thoughts of him. Her lips twitched as the picture of his face formed in her mind. The hairs along her arm stood on end as the irritation mounted. Bringing the tip of the quill back to the paper, she wrote the last pitfall.

_Seven._ **Being Percy Weasley's daughter.**

One would think that Molly would be the apple of Percy's eye. Sure, he is immensely proud of his firstborn, who reminds him so much of his ambitious self; however, it is Lucy that he shows the most affection; however, Lucy wants nothing to do with him. While she does love her father, she doesn't necessarily like him. He's too uptight, dull, and meticulous. At every chance he gets, Percy is determined to start up a conversation or bond with Lucy; however, she either ignores him or politely makes eye contact. She knows how selfish her father is. Her favorite uncle George has told Lucy a lot about her father, like how he disowned the family.

Closing her journal, Lucy sighed, her full, pink lips parting to expel her breath. Tilting her head back, she rested it against the back of her seat, her eyes lid growing heavy. Her dainty hand protectively laid atop of her battered journal as her hazel eyes, her father's hazel eyes, gazed mindlessly outside of her window.

She often wonders, _what if I do, think, or feel something that my father opposes? Would he chose his job over me, like he did to his own parents?_ He broke his parents' hearts and broke his siblings' trust. What could it have possibly felt like to have that kind of pain ravage your heart?

She wasn't going to find out.


End file.
